Incitement

by David Graham

  Larsen bound Zaragosa’s hands and feet during the brief time he was unconscious. When the drug lord came to he immediately recognised his plight. He attempted to cry out but the thick handkerchief that had been stuffed in his mouth muted his attempts. As the cry evaporated, Larsen saw something leave his captive’s frame.

  Francisco began to murmur, the tone plain even if the words were not, all of his customary poise and style deserting him. His captor did not acknowledge the sounds and turned to his backpack, taking out a small leather pouch. He tried to calm himself, thinking this must be a mistake, which was bound to be resolved. Looking down he realised he had lost control of his bladder and the indignity added to the feeling of unfairness, causing his last shred of reserve to crumble. His assailant, distracted by the uncontrollable sobbing, stopped what he was doing for a moment and looked him in the eye. Somewhere in the dark gaze, Francisco was certain he detected a trace of hesitancy.

  Even with Larsen’s knowledge of Zaragosa’s history, the look of terror in his eyes combined with the knowledge of what lay in store for his captive were enough to stir feelings of pity. He told himself that the Mexican deserved no sympathy, that he had never shown it to the legions whose lives he had ruined. In fact Zaragosa had displayed a heightened ability to divorce himself from the pain of his actions. The incidence of teenage drug-dependency on the West Coast had risen over two hundred per cent since his arrival in California. Larsen had decided something special was required at this juncture but, now that he was here, doubts rushed to the surface. The pharmacists had explained it in detail and their words had sent a chill through him. The main ingredient induced a form of paranoia in the subject, causing him to enter an extreme state of withdrawal, losing any ability to trust what his body told him was happening. The second constituent impaired most of the main motor skills, meaning even the simplest physical functions were beyond the victim. The combination effectively created a prisoner in his own body, which was in turn imprisoned in a harsh, hostile world. The two experts had disagreed about its permanence but even the one who had argued its toxicological effects were reversible agreed it could take years. By that stage, the subject would be so traumatised by the experience, it would be academic anyway.

  The intruder took out a small jar and drew its contents up into a syringe, quickly flicking the hypodermic a few times to eliminate any air bubbles. Francisco began to plead even more frantically for the ordeal to stop. Strong hands gripped his shirtsleeve and ripped it open. The tightness of the bonds had made his veins protrude and the needle went in immediately. He watched the hypodermic being pressed and felt his reason desert him.

  Larsen removed the needle, gathered his things and left quickly without another glance at the convulsing form.

  Caesar Rodriguez waited for his guest in the massive drawing room. He believed the size of the room helped to increase the discomfort of his visitors. Not as much as the reputation he cultivated for bouts of explosive rage but it was important to exploit every advantage. Tales of his legendary temper were well founded, but over the years exaggeration had crept in and he had been quick to see the benefits. Even the best-prepared arguments from seasoned debaters could melt when faced with an enraged Rodriguez. Occasionally the outrage was genuine but most of the time he was simply performing.

  Today’s meeting, however, would be different. Unlike almost everyone else he dealt with, Esteban Zaragosa was immune to intimidation and held enough power to influence Rodriguez’s future. Indeed, it was Zaragosa who was currently in need of careful handling. Rodriguez knew about the recent episode in California and was in no doubt as to what the subject for discussion would be. He knew the next few minutes could take him a significant step closer to his dream. He reminded himself not to become overexcited; caution was the watchword. Esteban was a veteran, possessing instincts honed over many years.

  One of the men escorted the bull-like Zaragosa into the room and Rodriguez nodded for them to be left alone. The toll recent events had taken on the older man was clearly visible, even before he had completely closed the distance between them. Zaragosa, known for his strong constitution and active lifestyle, looked tired and worn. He guessed Zaragosa’s demise was imminent, regardless of anything agreed today. He embraced his guest then stepped back and looked at him sorrowfully.

  “Esteban, I don’t have the words to express my grief, what kind of evil is this?”

  This close, he caught the whiff of alcohol. Things were definitely unravelling, he thought. He motioned for Zaragosa to sit but the older man shook his head, so they both remained standing.

  “You warned him!” Zaragosa said.

  “Francisco?” he asked, knowing full well who Zaragosa had meant.

  “No, that gutless bitch Madrigal. He waited so long to move against our enemies, and then acted so ineffectually. He encouraged them to believe they could get away with anything.” The emotion carried in the words showed a fury barely held in check.

  “Please, have a drink; it’ll settle you. It’s not good to be so agitated.” Rodriguez moved to the drinks cabinet, poured a generous glass and handed it to Zaragosa, who had sunk into a chair.

  “How is Francisco? I have only heard a little.” Rodriguez knew the details of Francisco’s condition intimately but the screw had to be turned.

  “My fine, beautiful boy is no longer. He was a prince among men, a king, loved and adored by everyone. Now ...” Zaragosa’s eyes welled up, “we don’t even know if he recognises us. Nothing intelligible comes from him. He has seizures constantly and has no control over his body. He shrinks from our every word or gesture.”

  “Terrible! What have the doctors said?” he asked, dragging it out.

  “Those fools, they’re useless. They can’t even say what’s wrong with him. Maybe he’ll recover within a month, maybe a year, perhaps more. I suspect they fear the worst but are too weak to say it to my face.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what they think anyway, they don’t know Francisco’s fortitude. He’ll recover.”

  Based on the reports he had heard Rodriguez doubted this.

  “I know it’s a secondary consideration but there must be some retribution. Do we know anything about the attackers? Francisco’s men must have seen something?”

  Zaragosa drained his glass and held it out to be refilled. “They saw nothing. I’ve spoken directly to them more than once. I told them, regardless of how difficult Francisco made it, their first duty was to protect him at all times. I stressed this when the troubles began. Instead of doing their work, they grew soft, indulging themselves and taking advantage of Francisco’s good nature. They’ve been dealt with.”

  Zaragosa fixed him with a firm stare, providing a timely reminder not to let his guard slip and consign the old man to the scrap heap prematurely. He had heard of the brutal execution of Francisco’s bodyguards.

  “We must do something. The moment I heard of Francisco’s plight my heart cried out for justice. I’ve thought of little else but it’s difficult to know which course to take.”

  There it was, the perfect invitation for Zaragosa to speak his mind.

  “You are absolutely correct. Something must be done and it’s something that has been crying out to be done for months. Not just because of poor Francisco but to redress the many unpunished transgressions that have been committed against us. Madrigal has to be removed. He let this situation develop.” He put his hand up to stop Rodriguez’s protests. “Believe me it’s necessary. I’ve already garnered significant support and if you’ll join us, the outcome is assured.”

  “Oust Madrigal, are you sure this is the way? It’s well known we’ve had our differences but –”

  Zaragosa reached forward, grasping his hands. “We don’t need him. He elevates the Colombians, belittling our contribution. With him out of the way, a fairer balance could be struck. What are the Colombians when you get right down to it? A bunch of savages controlling some crops. It’s our distribution and trafficking that have been th
e real success.”

  Rodriguez tried to look as if he was having difficulty digesting what he was hearing, as if he did not know where to begin. “Esteban, I see some truth in what you say but the fact remains that the Colombians do control production, and without product everything else is irrelevant.”

  “Don’t worry about control of production,” Zaragosa replied, becoming animated, his lethargy fading away. “I’ve talked to factions in Bolivia and Peru, they’re ready to resume their former levels of production and they see us as a way of ensuring the Colombians don’t interfere. We would hold the power in that relationship.”

  He had already known of Zaragosa’s approaches to these but he needed to be sure there was nothing else. “Esteban, your years of experience speak for themselves but are we risking a two-fronted battle?” Rodriguez asked, trying to elicit greater detail. “In addition to the Kosovars, we’ll also have those loyal to Madrigal targeting us. Even if we could remove Madrigal, won’t another Colombian emerge to fill the void? The successor won’t trust us. He’ll probably try to cut us out entirely.”

  “No, that won’t happen. There’s no Colombian strong enough to step in. For all of his weaknesses, when it comes to organisational ability and personal leadership, Madrigal is far superior to any of his compatriots,” Zaragosa reassured him. “With him out of the way, a group of evenly matched rivals with bitter histories will seek to gain control. We only need to position ourselves to back a few key players I’ve already enlisted. The men I’ve picked have limited ambition, they’ll be only too happy to work with us.”

  This only convinced Rodriguez more that he had decided on the correct course. Was Zaragosa’s mind so addled with age and grief that he thought Madrigal captained such a loose ship? No doubt these “key players” had run scurrying back to him at the first opportunity.

  “Madrigal’s security is exceptional. Are you sure we could succeed?”

  “Never underestimate a man’s greed or overestimate his loyalty. I know Madrigal’s planned movements and he’ll provide us with our opportunity in the next couple of weeks. Final preparations for the hit are being made now.”

  This was the first piece of news that surprised Rodriguez. Not the absurd notion that Zaragosa had co-opted people close to Madrigal but that he had moved so quickly. It showed the deficiencies in Rodriguez’s sources.

  “How can I help? You seem to have thought of everything, what’s left for me?”

  “I’d never have approached you this directly if I had not known you shared my feelings about him. I’ve no need for direct action from you. I want only two things. The first is your endorsement.”

  “You have it. I can’t think of a better future than you assuming control. What else?”

  “I’m not a young man and I have no successor, not anymore. I’ll need your strong support and for you, over time, to take the reins.”

  “I can’t say how proud this makes me. Of course I’ll agree to help in any way I can, but if this meeting has proven anything, it’s that you’re far from retirement.”

  Zaragosa shook his head. “No Caesar, today’s business represents my final effort. Francisco’s plight has left me with little appetite to continue. I’m only undertaking this because there must be consequences for my nephew’s condition. I feel as if everything I’ve striven for was worthless and each day takes its toll.”

  With that, he got to his feet, drained his drink and started towards the door. On the way, Rodriguez gripped his elbow lightly and gently guided him out.

  Left alone, he wondered if he should feel guilty about what he was going to do. Zaragosa seemed sincere in his desire to have him as a successor. The simple fact of the matter, though, was that he could not afford for Zaragosa’s gambit to upset his own plans. Better for the moment to remain loyal to Madrigal. He had no doubt that the Colombian knew of today’s meeting. If he did not contact Madrigal, it would be interpreted as a hostile move.

  There might be a silver lining to this development. He would warn Madrigal of what the Colombian already knew and in the process he might gain some kudos. In any case, even if Madrigal recognised the self-interest of the warning, there was no one else he could choose to take over Zaragosa’s operations in Mexico and California. Only Rodriguez had the personnel and resources to keep the money rolling in. The larger strategy was still on course but, if it went awry, at least he had positioned himself optimally. No matter what happened, his time was coming.

  Despite the coldness of the room, Larsen, clothed only in a thin T-shirt and loose cotton trousers, moved easily. Back and forward across the large workout mat, he performed sequence after sequence of strikes and holds. He knew the benefits physical exertion could bring to a troubled mind and he searched for these now. Earlier, he had worked through a long set of floor exercises for the better part of two hours. Sweat poured to the floor as he pushed himself harder and harder. Still the uncertainties lingered.

  There had been a time when doubt would not have existed. Not that he had always been convinced of the righteousness of his actions; hardly. Issues of right and wrong had just never entered the equation. He could not identify the exact moment when that had changed, or the cause for that matter. It could not be ascribed to a religious conversion; he had started life as an atheist and nothing the world offered had shaken these convictions. He was not in the least sentimental, conventions and traditions that were of great importance to others had made little impression on him.

  Ready to commence, he gestured to the instructor who exploded from his corner of the hall, hurling himself at the client who had paid handsomely for this session. Closing the distance rapidly, the larger attacker launched a series of low kicks and foot swipes which forced him to the edge of the mat. With nowhere left to retreat, Larsen was forced to step inside in an attempt to smother the attacks. The instructor kneed him to the top of his right leg, deadening the limb, and sought to follow it up with an elbow to the temple. Managing to duck under this second strike just in time, Larsen grabbed the instructor around the neck and tried to trip him to the floor, the intention being to use their combined bodyweight to wind his opponent. He found himself turned effortlessly and thrown back across the mat. Having gauged his strength and found it wanting, the instructor launched another, stronger attack.

  All through military service, the mission had been sacrosanct. You did not question orders, you obeyed them. You belonged to something and you gave back to this thing that succoured you. Excelling in your duty made you ... what? Useful? Worthwhile? He had known the answer once. Later, selling his skills to the highest bidder, there was less sureness but still there was the mission. He no longer gave allegiance to unit, army or country and was despised by those comrades who were once closest, but the mission endured. Finally, interest from different quarters, proposals of a different kind. Assassinations, kidnappings, blackmail; it didn’t matter, as long as there was an objective to achieve. The descent continued – questionable causes, glimpses of curious allegiances and, always, innocent suffering. Then, finally, the doubts began to undermine the tenets of a lifetime. Things he thought to be immutable were thrown into question.

  This time the instructor feinted with a kick to his knee. When Larsen took the feint and moved to the left, his opponent was ready. His T-shirt was gripped and he was pulled on to a powerful right elbow which struck his cheekbone. He felt himself sag and, as his head swam, he realised a chokehold was being attempted, which would settle the encounter. Letting himself go, he relaxed totally and the sudden looseness of his frame allowed him to slip from the instructor’s grasp. He staggered backward.

  It had gotten so bad that he had abandoned a crucial assignment before completion, not caring to consider the consequences. Word of his actions filtered out and his reputation suffered. He had gained nothing from his action, in fact he had been lucky to escape with his life. At that point, he had decided to take himself off the board, at least temporarily, before someone else took the decision.

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nbsp; He had to go on the offensive despite his rapidly dwindling resources and his opponent’s indefatigable zeal for combat. He stepped in and threw a knee intended only to distract. When the instructor stepped back a half step to avoid the blow he attempted an eye-gouge. His strike was easily evaded and his wrist caught in a powerful grip. He felt his bodyweight being turned back around the outstretched hand and pressure applied to the back of his shoulder forcing him to the ground.

  During his sabbatical he pondered his actions. Was it attrition? Had he burnt out, lost his edge or had he been infected by some other malaise? Notions of morality? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers. Then he had been offered this assignment. He researched those behind it meticulously. All of the normal criteria were there: commitment, ability to pay, exploitable weaknesses to dissuade treachery. But there was something more to this. An opportunity. The more he looked at the proposal and its goals, the more he realised how much he needed it.

  Just before his face struck the mat, he managed to tuck his head and roll forward. Grabbing hold of the instructor’s tunic with his free hand, he used the momentum to pull the opponent down. He scrambled to apply a chokehold before a defence could be mounted. Whatever he tried was countered, and as hold after hold was defeated, it took a much greater toll on him than the larger man. He could not break free from the grip on his right wrist and constant movement was necessary to prevent it surrendering a conclusive advantage. Eventually a chop aimed at the instructor’s chest was deflected to strike under the arm and broke the grip. As he rolled backward to his feet, battling for his breath now, the opponent bounced up and, with a confident grin, came on once more.